


Restless

by orphan_account



Category: South Park
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Depression, Erotic Poetry, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-09
Updated: 2014-04-09
Packaged: 2018-01-18 17:56:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1437415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stan's musings on a relationship (Could be OC or Wendy -- a name isn't stated).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Restless

**Author's Note:**

> I got some inspiration from Tiny Vessels by Death Cab For Cutie, specifically the line: "Yeah, she is beautiful, but she don't mean a thing to me". Hope you enjoy. :)

Her fingers puncture my skin, reverberating deep within the half-empty void where my brain thinks my heart should be. My vision is fuzzy with the effects of a six pack of Budweiser, but she either can’t tell, or doesn’t want to believe I would drink before coming over to her house. The clarity I can find even in the most intoxicated state I remember is almost frustrating, as if the only way to revel in true ignorance is through death. 

The room is silent as she hooks a hand behind the collar of my shirt and pulls me to her; I take on a foreign sense of dominance, trying to seem mature and knowledgeable. She brings her knee between my legs and presses it gently against my groin -- the feeling is unequivocally pleasant, shooting right to the depressive abscess in my chest. She is everything that I should find joy in, and of course I’m sentimental about the connection we’ve shared for the past seven years. I’ve found myself conjuring up memories of her sun-tinted cheeks, like smeared strawberries across her face as she kicked up salt water on a beach in Washington. The unique texture of her skin is embroidered onto my subconscious, making appearances as other objects in my dreams. 

Yet, as I lie in my perfectly-orchestrated demeanour above her pale figure, I find sorrow in the indecisive fullness of my heart, the very centre of my life. It pools like thick syrup, coating my ribs and the uppermost part of my stomach with saccharine guilt. Her long, black hair falls against the cheap cotton of my pillowcase as I go through the motions of taking off her clothes: hesitantly, patiently, then all at once. Her nose glides along the harshness of my jaw, eyes open and mouth spread into a brilliant, approving smile. I think, sickeningly, that I don’t deserve this smile. Or, maybe it isn’t so much that I don’t deserve the smile as it is that she deserves someone who can look at her with the same, ever-renewed passion reflected in the whites of her eyes...Someone who doesn’t have to play the part. Someone who lives it. 

As she strips me of society’s decencies, grasping my cock with an eager hand and stroking it with the tenderness of secretly-unrequited love, I imagine what it would be like to be at ease in a relationship. If I could spew meaningless, cynical profanities out of my mouth like a rusty faucet and the person lying next to me could remember the polished, smooth surface I had before I’d let myself go, would I eventually learn to revert to my less detrimental habits? Would life find meaning? Would the basin of empty promises and acquired recklessness in my body leave me, my mediastinum wiped clean of any mess I’ve left behind? Could my heart be carefully placed again by someone’s diligence? 

As she lies close to me, her sweat like crazy glue against mine, lungs pushing air out of her mouth in short, laboured breaths, I lose hope in the excessive heat of her arms. A cycle, whether of narcotic-painted sunglasses or tarnished, unwilling-to-be-finished endings, is difficult to break.


End file.
